GOLD  STORIES  OF  '49 


,      BY 
A  CALIFORNIAN 


COPELAND   AND   DAY 
MDCCCXCVI 


COPYRIGHT  BY  COPELAND  AND  DAY  1896 


TO   MY   FATHER 

THE  TALES  OF  FORTY-NINE  TOLD  BY  THY  VOICE 
WERE  AS  PURE  GOLD.     TAKE  THEM  AGAIN  FROM  ME! 
CANST  THOU  NOT  KNOW  ACROSS  THE  DEEPS  OF  DEATH 
HOW  EVERY  LINE  IS  INTER-WRIT  WITH  THEE  ? 


1 58618 


HING,  Muse,  the  conquering  of  the  mighty 
__   West, 
The  peaceful  battles  of  the  timeless  god  ! 
Sing,  Muse,  the  men  who  vanquished  valiant  wilds, 
The  old  Gold  Finder's  glory,  and  their  fame,  — 
The  heroes  of  the  march  Across  the  Plains, 
Whose  dauntless  souls  and  sinews  shared  the  strong 
Exultant  passion  of  the  Pioneers. 

Now  the  Great  Desert  blossoms  as  the  rose, 
Corn  tassels  wave  o'er  broad  Nebraska's  plains. 
Now  gripped  by  steel  the  passive  land  lies  prone, 
Bound  fast  in  fitters  forged  in  liquid  fire. 
Splendid  the  making  of  those  bands  of  steel 
Where  men  like  goas  of  old  pour  molten  fire 
Down  the  black  night  in  streams  of  glowing  white 
That  writhe  and  pulsate  in  the  throbbing  rage 
Of  glorious  life  and  strength  they  are  to  bear. 
Slowly  as  from  the  ponderous  loom  of  Time 
The  quivering  bars  are  shuttled  into  form, 
And  mighty  engines  shape  them  into  rails ; 


The  flowing  fire  becomes  a  path  for  men, 

It  holds  in  thrall  a  vast  wild  continent. 

Its  seven-chained  harness  links  the  shores  of  sun 

Fast  to  the  snowy  shores  our  fathers  gained, 

And  built  their  forts  of  faith  whose  banners  wave 

From  ocean  unto  ocean,  from  the  bay 

Where  Liberty  erect  salutes  the  world 

Unto  the  white  lights  of  the  Farallones 

That  flash  response  and  beacon  the  far  East 

Beyond  the   Golden   Gate  that  guards  the  Land  of 

•  Gold! 


Gold  Stories  of  Forty-Nine. 


THE   FINDING   OF   THE   GOLD 

ROW  gloriously  the  sudden  signal  came  ! 
A  gleam  of  gold  within  a  hand  surprised, 
And  lo !  the  vast  Sierras  lured  the  world. 
The  sweet  Sierras  !  —  there  beside  the  stream 
Where   mountain    snows  flood   down   the   rose- 
filled  vale, 

And  sunrise  trembles  on  the  little  hills 
That    stand    before    the    kingly    white-crowned 

heights, 

Where  sunset  flames  above  the  forest  hoar, 
And  passion-flowers   hang  clustering  'neath  the 

figs, 

And  oleanders  sway  in  rich  perfume, 
And  orioles  call  matins  to  their  mates, 
3 


And  clouds  of  peach  and  almond  blossoms  droop 
Above  the  scars  of  long-deserted  mines, — 
In  bright  Coloma,  El  Dorado's  pride, 
James  Marshall  found  the  gold  a  winter's  morn, 
A  balmy  winter's  morn  in  Forty-Eight. 

We  were  Coloma  children,  and  the  Man 
Who  found  the  Gold  used  oftentimes  to  come 
Up  to  the  parsonage  where  our  roses  bloomed 
From  Christmas  unto  Christmas.     Always  there 
Were  roses  for  a  funeral  or  a  bride 
Even  in  winter,  and  in  April's  prime 
A  riot  of  blossoms,  crimson,  gold  and  white, 
Creamy   with   sunshine,    flushed    like   mountain 

dawn, 
Or  redder  than  the  poppies  on  the  hills. 

'T  was  many  years  after  the  Gold  was  found, 
Gone  were  the  miners  from  Coloma's  vale, 
The  heart  of.  El  Dorado  wonderland, 
And  all  was  peaceful  in  the  little  town 
As  in  an  old  world  village.     Like  a  dream 
It  seemed,  that  our  rose-filled  and  quiet  vale 
Had  once  been  quick  with  eager  crowding  life. 
The  Story  of  the  Gold  was  the  first  tale 
We  used  to  choose  when  the  great  winter  rains 
4 


Were  falling  fast  upon  our  drooping  flowers, 
And  we  were  grouped  indoors  about  the  hearth 
Where  pine  cones,  huge  as  we  might  compass 

round 

With  circling  arms,  like  roses  sprung  in  fire. 
The  quivering  petals  trembled  to  the  blaze, 
And  reminiscent  still  of  crackling  boughs, 
Distilled  such  odors  from  their  hidden  hearts, 
Spicy  and  nut-sweet,  fruitful  of  the  scents 
Of  virgin-bodied  trees,  that  the  plain  room 
Seemed  like  a  palace  fragrant  for  the  use 
Of  minstrels  chanting  of  the  lore  of  eld. 

There  the  Gold  Finder  used  to  tell  his  tales, 
Or  oft  he  listened  while  my  father  told 
The  stories  of  his  life  in  Forty-Nine, 
While  on  the  cottage  hearth  the  pine  cones  blazed, 
And  winter  made  the  passion-flowers  forget 
To  cover  all  the  trellis  with  the  cross 
That  grew  beside  that  holy  wondrous  bloom, 
The  Espiritu  Santo,  dove  of  white-winged  peace, 
Beneath  the  fig-tree,  by  our  vine-hung  door. 
Beside  the  old  Gold  Finder  sat  his  friends. 
For  them  alone,  sweet  souls  of  sympathy, 
And  for  their  children  was  his  tongue  unloosed. 
For  them  he  told  his  story  of  that  day 
5 


The  world  had  news  of  speedily,  the  hour 
He  saw  and  touched  the  gold  and  found  the  dream, 
The  old-world  dream  of  El  Dorado,  true ! 
From  the  first  moment  Marshall  knew  indeed 
He  held  the  key  upon  his  hardy  palm 
That  should  unlock  the  West  unto  mankind. 
A  fever  burned  within  his  veins  for  days 
From  sudden  joy  of  knowing  that  the  race 
Must  know  of  him  who  held  the  treasure  fast. 
His  soul  cried  I !  and  stood  up  strong  and  glad 
And  felt  its  oneness  with  the  gods  who  gave. 
Alone  he  lived  through  all  his  later  days, 
In  his  hill  vineyard,  guarding  well  the  wines 
His  wine-press  crushed  from  the  rich  mountain 

grapes ; 

Their  cellar  was  a  cave  that  burrowed  far 
By  his  hands'  strength  into  his  hillside  deeps, 
Concealed  these  pomps  of  his  poor  outward  state. 
His  was  the  fortune,  known  of  gods  and  men, 
Always  to  seek  and  evermore  to  hope. 
Others  found  riches  in  the  mines  where  he 
Found  disappointment,  and  the  Golden  State 
Gave  him  but  four  years'  pension  in  reward 
For  the  Discovery  whose  fame  is  one 
With  her  fair  fame.     'T  is  thus  republics  are  ! 
With  nectar  of  wild  hopes  he  fed  his  soul, 
6 


Nor  ever  ceased  to  quaff  until  he  died 
Of  the  fine  flavor  of  a  coming  bliss. 
Behold  him  facing  life's  tremendous  loss 
Beside  a  friendly  fireside  telling  tales  !  - 
Maker  of  empires,  toiler  for  a  crust, 
Hater  of  men,  and  desperate  of  God, 
Lover  of  little  children  and  the  sun  ! 

It  was  when  the  century  was  twelve  years  old, 

Marshall  was  born  upon  a  morn  in  May. 

His  birthplace  was  an  Eastern  town  named  Hope. 

To  him  and  to  his  people  the  great  sea 

That  laves  New  Jersey's  beaches  beautiful 

Was  the  one  ocean  of  Columbia. 

Not  yet  the  far  Pacific  had  become 

More  than  a  fabled  water  to  their  ken. 

They  lived  and  loved  and  worked,  these  good 

folk  all, 

Within  a  day's  ride  of  historic  ground 
Where  Washington  had  crossed  the  Delaware. 
The  stories  of  their  fireside  were  of  him, 
And  of  his  glorious  deeds  and  victories. 

When  he  had  come  to  man's  estate,  the  youth 
Followed  his  country's  star  unto  the  West. 
7 


Three  States  were  home  to  him  within  ten  years,  — 

To  Indiana,  thence  to  Illinois, 

And   thence    to    the    frontier    where    flows   the 

Platte, 
Moving  towards  sunset  aye,  he  followed  fate. 

Then  in  his  two-and-thirtieth  year  began 
With  five  score  comrades,  good  companions  all, 
The  long,  hard  journey  o'er  the  desert  wilds 
And  o'er  the  unmapped  mountains  to  the  land 
Of  the  broad  Oregon  ;  thence  pressing  South 
Through  the  great  redwood  forests  of  the  North 
He  reached  the  Sacramento,  and  at  last 
In  peace  began  to  build  a  ranchman's  home. 

He  loved  his  own  free  acres  and  the  house 
His  two  hands  built  to  shelter  him  ;  he  loved 
The  comfort  and  the  newness  of  content, 
But  more  he  loved  his  country  !     When  Fremont 
At  Sutter  Buttes  the  Mexic  arms  defied, 
Quick  to  his  aid  came  Marshall  and  the  men 
He  rallied  from  the  valley  ranchers'  homes. 

When  the   three   Castros   had  laid   down   their 

swords, 
And  noble  Andres  Pico  was  subdued, 


When  the  old  capital  was  ours,  and  brave 
The  stars  and  stripes  waved  over  Monterey, 
And  fame  was  echoing  the  name  Fremont, 
Came  the  good  soldier  home  to  find  all  gone 
That  he  had  toiled  for  one  long  happy  year, 
His  cattle  stolen  and  his  roof-tree  razed. 
Nothing  and  ever  nothing  !     He  fell  ill, 
And  while  he  lay  in  fever  in  a  camp, 
There  came  a  Georgian  woman  to  his  aid, 
Gay-hearted  Jenny  Wimmer.     Her  cool  hand 
Soothed  the  tired  brow.     Her  smile?  were  heav 
enly  gifts. 

She  fed  and  nursed  the  soldier,  and  at  last 
The  bitterness  of  life  was  touched  with  sweet, 
And  in  the  Wimmers'  cabin  once  more  Home 
Grew  real  to  his  belief  while  this  goodwife 
Told  him  the  story  of  her  hardy  youth. 

Virginian  born  and  Georgian  reared,  twice  wed 
Ere  six-and-twenty,  jenny's  wedding  trips 
Had  been,  —  the  first  one  from  the  Georgia  hills 
Out  to  the  Iron  Mountains,  there  —  she  wept  — 
Her  first  love  died,  then  to  the  unknown  West 
The  next  year  journeying  with  her  Pioneer 
Who  blazed  a  trail  o'er  the  Sierras'  heights 
For  following  thousands  seven  years  later  on. 
9 


She  dreamed  not  of  the  part  was  still  for  her 
When  she  nursed  Marshall  back  to  hope  and  life. 
The  autumn  came,  and  Jenny's  husband  went 
To  work  for  Marshall,  building  Sutter's  Mill. 
Gay-hearted  Jenny  singing  followed  camp,  — 
The  first  white  woman  to  Coloma  came ! 
The  New  Year  dawned,  and  Jenny,  wont  to  say 
The  river's  sands  were  golden,  begged  the  men 
To  try  and  know,  —  these  mountains  might  bear 

gold, 

For  were  they  not  like  her  dear  Georgia  hills 
Where  the  gold-hunters  found  some  small  reward  ? 
Where  she  had  been  prospecting  many  a  time, 
As  Jersey  girls  go  berrying,  and  found 
Her  little  pan  of  pay  dirt  more  than  once  ! 
And  so  one  morning  when  an  Indian 
Who  helped  the  Mormon  mill-hands,  turned  the 

sluice 

At  sunset,  and  all  night  the  stream's  swift  flood 
Had  washed  the  sand  and  gravel  from  the  bank, 
A  shining  nugget  sparkled  on  the  ground 
Upon  a  large  flat  stone  beside  the  race, 
And  Marshall  stooped  and  picked  the  nugget  up. 
No  doubt  had  Jenny  that  it  was  pure  gold 
When  to  her  hand  and  glance  the  bright  bit  came. 
Her  woman's  heart,  content  with  prophecy, 
10 


Declared  she  knew  at  sight  this  chosen  spot ! 
In  her  soap-kettle  filled  with  boiling  lye 
She  plunged  the  nugget,  where  it  lay  all  day, 
But  came  out  shining  from  its  fiery  bath. 
So  Jenny  cried  in  triumph,  "  'T  is  pure  gold  !" 
And  Marshall,  when  at  Sutter's  Fort  he  learned, 
By  the  new  tests  there  made  and  certified, 
Beyond  all  doubt  't  was  precious  ore,  returned 
And  gave  the  nugget  to  his  friend's  goodwife, 
And  Jenny  always  kept  it,  proud  and  glad. 

When  the  Discovery  of  Gold  was  known, 
From  the  American  River  to  the  Bay 
Of  San  Francisco  the  excitement  leaped 
To  fever  heat,  and  the  Sierras  were 
Peopled  with  Californians,  finding  gold 
Beside  the  placers  of  a  score  of  streams,  — 
And  in  a  thousand  gulches  finding  gold. 
Swift  flew  the  news  to  all  the  world,  and  soon 
To  the  Sierras  came  a  countless  throng. 
Marshall  worked  on  until  the  mill  was  built, 
Fulfilled  his  contract  loyally  and  well, 
Then  took  his  pick  and  pan  and  joined  the  rest. 

He  saw  the  coming  of  the  Argonauts ! 
By  far  Magellan  came  New  England's  sons, 
ii 


Manhattan's  men  and  Pennsylvania's  pride, 
And  Southrons,  brothers  in  one  fervent  aim, 
Fearless  though  storms  beset  them  as  they  sailed, 
For  ever  El  Dorado  beckoned  them, 
While  past  the  Incas'  shores  their  ensigns  flew, 
And  past  the  leagues  of  Montezuma's  land. 

The  Isthmus  knew  the  tramp  of  myriad  feet, 
And  scholars  saw  the  prophecy  of  song 
Revealed  upon  the  peaks  of  Darien. 
The  palm-hung  river  bore  strange  crafts,  a  fleet 
Of  boats  hewed  from  great  trees  so  large  each  one 
Could  bear  the  burdens  of  a  score  of  men. 
Women  and  children  sickened  sore  and  died, 
Husbands  and  fathers  wept  —  and  hastened  on. 
From  Spain  to  Norway  passed  the  startling  word. 
From   England's   ports  and   from  the   shores   of 

France, 

From  Germany  and  Denmark  and  the  North 
Sailed  eager  ships  unto  the  new  found  world. 
The  sign  went  forth  and  Asia's  silent  hordes 
Came  to  their  ceaseless,  noiseless,  ant-like  tasks. 
And  up  and  down  in  broad  Columbia, 
To  all  her  hamlets,  villages,  and  towns, 
Her  cities  and  her  forests,  pierced  the  sting, 
The  stimulus  and  stir  of  a  new  life. 
12 


More  than  all  dreams  that  avarice  could  share, 
More  than  ambition  knows  or  words  could  tell, 
Thrilled  in  the  veins  of  men  in  those  old  days. 
All  that  the  race  has  felt  of  conquering  blood, 
Of  love  of  hearthstones  wherefore  Death  is  faced, 
Of  fine  adventure  and  upspringing  pride, 
Of  glory,  that  new  born  in  patriot  hearts 
Moves  a  great  army  to  unventured  war, 
Fired  youth  with  fever  that  resistless  burned, 
Made  old  men  young,  in  ardor  for  the  young 
Unwooed,     unknown,     virgin     and     beckoning 

West,  — 
Then,  rank  on  rank,  behold  the  Pioneers ! 


II 

CROSSING   THE   PLAINS 

WO  thousand  miles  from  our  Coloma 
home," 

Began  my  father's  stories  by  the  fire. 
The  old  Gold  Finder  listened  too,  and  oft, 
If  children  begged  him,  made  the  grizzlies  seem 
Most  near  and  dread,  by  growling  fierce  and  low; 
Or  shook  his  pipe  as  't  were  a  tomahawk, 
And  threatened  small  blond  heads  that  nestled 

close 

Beside  the  mother  sitting  by  the  hearth, 
Or  from  the  father's  breast  defiance  smiled. 
These  were  the  tales  of  many  a  rainy  eve, 
And  oft  repeated  in  the  summer,  when 
The  moonlight  made  the  valley  bright  as  day, 
Told  by  the  Pastor,  once  a  Pioneer  : 
"  Two  thousand  miles  from  the  Sierra  snows, 
Even  in  the  heart  of  the  great  continent, 
A  little  town  was  springing  into  life 
Beside  the  waters  of  a  tideless  sea. 
H 


• 


It  was  Fort  Dearborn  still  to  country  folk, 
Not  yet  grown  used  to  speak  its  newer  name. 
On  all  the  prairies  near  Chicago  then, 
The  air  was  filled  with  farewells,  for  the  word 
Had  come  of  El  Dorado's  treasure  found, 
And  mothers  sobbed  fond  farewells  to  their  sons, 
And  all  the  wives  were  sweethearts  in  those  days, 
Fast  clinging  to   their  loves  who  kissed,  —  and 
went. 

cc  One  morning  in  the  balmy  month  of  March 
That  blessed  the  golden  spring  of  Forty-Nine, 
There  was  a  meet  like  many  another  known. 
The  Story  of  the  Gold  had  all  men  heard, 
The  comrades  joined  their  leader  for  the  ride  ! 
I  stood  that  sunny  morning  by  my  horse, 
Waiting  to  mount  and  ride  away.     The  dawn 
Hung  o'er  the  prairies  and  the  shadowy  wood. 
Close  at  my  right  hand  the  slow  Calumet 
Flowed  slowly  northward  towards  Lake  Michigan, 
While  on  the  left  below  a  little  knoll 
The  Hickory's  springs  made  crystals  for  the  Gulf. 
I  stood,  and  saw  the  first  rays  of  the  sun 
Shine  on  the  parting  of  the  ways,  while  all 
My  comrades  came  from  near  and  far,  and  soon 
It  was  full  morn,  and  ours  the  wondrous  day." 
15 


Simple  as  Nature,  tender  as  her  love, 
The  leader  and  his  men,  their  passion  fine 
Unspoken,  and  their  patriot  phrase  unsung, 
But   how  their  words   "  To   see  the   Country " 

still 
Make  old  eyes  shine  with  memory  and  youth ! 

"  With  souls  alert  we  passed  familiar  scenes. 
The  poplars  and  the  hickories  bowed  farewell. 
An  early  meadow-lark  sang  loud  good-byes. 
The  fields  we  left  bare-bosomed  to  the  sun 
Prayed    our    return.     The    morning   filled    the 

groves 
When  we  reached  slow  Des  Plaines,  and  crossed 

the  stream. 

"  Our  horses'  feet  made  music  on  the  road, 
Our  wagons  were  as  chariots  of  hope. 
The  Morning  and  the  Evening  that  first  day 
Created  a  new  Earth  before  we  slept. 
Beneath  the  great  blue  sky  we  rose  next  morn 
And  bathed  our  faces  in  the  prairie  dews, 
Then  on  past  fertile  fields  and  amber  streams 
And  ever  onward  moved  our  happy  men. 
With  song  and  jest  and  many  a  jocund  plan 
We  rode  towards  sunset  for  that  first  gay  week. 
16 


But  soon  our  merriment  was  changed  to  tears, 
Our  smiles  turned  sighs,  and  bravest  hearts  were 

chilled, 

For  sudden  sickness  smote  a  comrade  down. 
He  laughed  at  camp-fire,  died  before  the  dawn. 
Our  shining  spades'  first  toil  was  in  the  earth 
Of  the  home  State  to  dig  for  him  a  grave. 
Beside  a  rivulet  we  chose  the  spot, 
The  spring's  first  green  spread  o'er  a  gentle  slope. 
Beneath  a  clump  of  trees  they  laid  him  down, 
And  listened  reverent  while  I  read  the  Book 
Whose  sacred  words  in  this  first  wilderness 
Committed  him  to  silence  and  to  God. 
We  journeyed  on  and  crossed  the  mighty  flood, 
Father  of  Waters,,  in  full  majesty, 
Past  wooded  islands  and  the  further  shore. 
Saint  Joseph  was  the  patron  saint,  they  said, 
Of  Pioneers,  since  in  Saint  Joseph's  town 
We  filled  great  wagons  with  all  needful  stores, 
And  joined  at  last  the  thousands,  rank  on  rank, 
Who  moved  together  'gainst  the  Western  wilds." 

For  them  the  mystery  and  pain  and  bliss 
Of  knowing  Nature  in  her  sternest  moods 
And  in  her  hours  of  yielding  new  delights. 
And  ever  more  the  tale  was  simply  told  :  — 

2  I7 


u  By  bugle  blast  the  camps  together  called, 
Made  rules  for  mutual  safety  and  for  guard. 
Each  company  then  chose  its  captain,  and 
On  every  day  another  wagon  led 
Our  company's  advance,  then  fell  to  rear. 
One  man  was  leader,  but  each  man  was  first 
In  his  true  turn  for  driving  at  the  head, 
And  feeling  manhood's  power  of  mastery 
Fronting  the  unknown  in  our  caravan. 
Each  man  was  armed  with  rifle,  pistol,  knife, 
Each  wagon  drawn  by  oxen,  three  good  pairs 
At  least  for  every  load.     On  either  side 
Walked  men  on  foot,  and  others  rode  one  day 
And  walked  the  next.     Sometimes  the  horses  led 
Behind  the  wagons  had  no  riders  while 
The  slow  advance  was  made.     A  dozen  miles 
On  every  day  the  average,  now  six, 
And  often  twenty,  sometimes  no  advance. 
At  night  the  circling  tents  made  a  brave  guard 
For  all  the  wagons'  burdens,  and  the  watch 
Kept  a  look-out  for  thieves,  —  or  Indians. 
Even  as  the  waves  mount  to  the  drawing  tide, 
By  the  true  consciousness  of  law  was  led 
In  fine  democracy  our  self-ruled  host, 
Our  bannered  host  of  thirty  thousand  men, 
The  wagons  stretching  far  as  eye  could  see. 
18 


"  And  Nature  all  that  spring  of  Forty-Nine 
Nurtured   us,   Plainsmen,   in    strange   ways   and 

sweet. 

Never  before  had  trappers  or  old  guides 
Beheld  such  early  blessing  of  the  grass. 
The  rivers'  vales  were  velvety  with  green, 
Abundant  pasture  for  the  patient  beasts, 
The  toiling  oxen,  and  the  hard-rid  horse 
With  the  long  trail  before  him.     And  sometimes 
New  springs  were  found,  delicious  waters  gave 
Fresh  cheer  unto  the  Plainsmen,  and  the  skies 
Day  after  day  and  week  on  week  were  bright. 
Life  smiled  upon  the  feeble  with  new  strength, 
And  aged  men  grew  youthful  with  delight 
In  the  wide  flowing  freedom  of  the  Plains. 

"  On  April  nights  when  heaven's  flood-gates  oped, 
And  peal  on  peal  the  sky's  artillery  boomed, 
And  lightnings  made  the  midnight  bright  as  noon, 
Wrapped  in  our  skins  of  buffaloes 
Beneath  our  tents  we  heard  the  storm,  and  joyed 
With  pleasure  primitive  in  the  wild  night. 
One  May  morn  we  were  careless,  lost  the  trail, 
And  all  day  long  traversed  a  barren  waste, 
That  brought  us  sheer  against  great  river  bluffs. 
Unfordable  the  stream,  and  dark  the  night, 
19 


And  so  we  waited  till  next  morning  came, 
And  all  the  next  day  sought  for  the  lost  trail, 
But  not  till  sunset  were  we  safe  again 
With  the  good  company  that  mile  on  mile 
Made  of  the  wagon  train  a  stately  host 
Moving  with  measured,  solemn  march  and  slow, 
The  wagons'  covers  white  like  soldiers'  tents, 
The  buglers'  welcoming  call  a  warning,  too. 

"  Another  day,  one  of  our  oxen  lamed, 
We  hitched  a  cow  into  his  place,  and  she 
Was  ready  for  her  share  of  work.     We  cheered 
The  hard-worked   beast   that    night.      And   she 

was  fed 

With  soft  spring-grasses  by  a  woman's  hand. 
Few  were  the  families  in  Forty-Nine 
That  crossed  together  ;  later  many  went, 
But  in  our  caravan  the  wives  were  few, 
And  few  the  children,  and  their  gayety 
Was  part  of  all  the  music  of  those  days. 
How  we    all    smiled    and    wiped    our  eyes  once 

when 

Beside  the  camp-fires  sitting  a  chill  night, 
Above  the  prairie  stillness,  soft  and  clear 
We  heard  a  woman's  voice  sing  '  Home,   sweet 

Home ! ' 

20 


"  We  burned  long  rosin-grasses,  missing  wood, 
And  thanked   kind   Nature  for  their  short-lived 

flame. 

New  foods  we  tasted,  good  and  wild  and  strange. 
We  startled  plovers  winging  from  the  grass 
Beside  brown  streams  that  ever  clearer  grew. 
The  antelope,  bright  graces  of  the  plain, 
Lured  all  our  huntsmen,  bounding  fleetly  by. 
We  jested  at  our  gifts  from  Nature's  hands, 
Declared  the  whetstones,  found  one  bright  May 

day, 

Perfect  of  grain  beside  an  ochre  knoll, 
Were  left  to  edge  our  comrades'  dullard  wits. 
We  gathered  nosegays  of  the  prairie  flowers, 
Huge  feathery  blooms  of  pink,  or  sprays  of  red, 
And  sent  them  to  each  other  when  at  night 
The  music  of  the  violin  and  fife, 
The  banjo,  clarionet,  and  tambourine 
Summoned  the  dancers  to  a  camp-fire  ball. 
'Twas  pleasant    too    whene'er    our    school-bred 

men 

Sought  likeness  in  their  poets  for  the  sound 
If  wolves  made  choruses  for  us  by  night, 
And  pleasant  too  when  they  took  turn  about 
Reciting  poetry  sometimes  for  hours, 
Their  voices  sounding  in  a  rhythmic  chant. 
21 


"  Homeric  came  the  trampling  to  our  ears 
Of  the  great  herds  of  buffaloes.     Like  clouds 
Across    the    morning     swept    their    thunderous 

trains, 
And,  not  content,  we  looked  for  mammoths  too. 

"  Summer  had  come  before  the  Red  Man  crossed 
The    trail    we    followed,  league    by   slow-passed 

league, 

But  one  June  day  a  band  of  warriors  came, 
A  hundred  Sioux,  all  riding  like  the  wind, 
Their    bows    and    feathers    pictured    'gainst    the 

sky, 

As  fast  with  lance  in  rest  the  men  came  on. 
I  raised  my  hands,  palms  upward  to  the  sky, 
Then  forth  in  friendship,  waving  them  for  peace. 
Swift  they  dismounted  and  each  warrior  sat 
Silent  in  line.     Their  chieftain  beckoned  me, 
And  so  I  went  and  shook  his  outstretched  hand. 
He  sought  a  wounded  enemy  we  hid, 
An  arrow-pierced  Pawnee,  who,  half  alive, 
Beside  the  trail  one  of  our  men  had  found, 
And  nursed  him  in  his  wagon.     I  signed  truth, 
Kneeling  I  bent  my  head,  as  who  should  say, 
'  The  Great  Spirit  cares  for  him.'   'T  was  even  so. 
Once  more  the  warrior  shook  mv  hand  and  went. 


22 


"  One  day  we  came  upon  a  peaceful  town 
Where  Indian  girls  and  women  welcomed  us, 
Walking  beside  their  fathers,  husbands,  sons, 
And  brave  in  beaded  costumes,  flowery  gay. 
Their  gowns  of  skins  were  smothered  with  the 

beads 

Bright  as  their  eyes  that  stared  most  curiously, 
At  these  white  people  who  by  some  strange  gift 
Had  patience  for  so  slow  and  toilsome  march 
To  find  a  yellow  metal,  useless,  too, 
Since  who  could  eat  or  drink  it  when  't  was  found? 
'T  is  true  it  would  make  pretty  beads,  but  then 
Such  things  as  these  they  might  find  nearer  home. 

"  The  Indian  men  who  from  that  village  came 
To  greet  us  were  the  noblest  fellows  all 

o 

I  e'er  beheld,  brown,  naked  to  the  sun 
As  God  had  fashioned  them,  their  shapely  limbs 
Unfettered,  strong,  and  splendid  to  be  seen, 
Their  supple  bodies,  graceful  and  erect, 
Fine  with  free  life  and  vigorous  with  health. 
When  I  remember  them,  I  always  think 
Of  my  first  glimpse  upon  the  trackless  plains 
Of  the  wild  horses  galloping  in  herds, 
Nobler  by  far  than  any  stall-fed  steeds 
Can  ever  be,  finer  to  look  upon 
23 


Than  handsomest  horse  e'er  fed  and  groomed  by 

men. 

The  wild  oats  fed  these  horses  of  the  plains. 
How  hardly  fared  the  man  who  dared  their  fire 
And  tried  by  trickery  to  master  them  ! 
A  splendid  stallion  caught  one  starry  night 
By  traps  and  ropes,  defied  our  utmost  strength 
And  efforts  for  his  holding.     c  Let  him  go  !  ' 
We  cried  at  last,  and  were  more  proud  than  he 
To  see  him  bound  again  across  the  night 
Defiant  even  of  his  liberty  ! 

"  How  long  our  way  beside  the  turbid  Platte! 
How  fine  the  great  reunion  when  at  last 
We  met  again  with  hundreds  of  our  train 
Scarce   seen  for  weeks,  where  the  Saint  Joseph 

road 

Rejoined  the  old  Fort  Kearney  trail,  and  where 
The  great  South  Fork  was  forded  turn  by  turn. 

"  Deep   quicksands    threatened    at    the   best   of 

fords, 

And  fierce  the  treacherous  dragging  at  the  wheels 
Across  its  wild  half-mile  of  waters.     Yet 
Old  Plainsmen  to  this  day  speak  of  the  Platte 
With  fond  affection,  for  the  river  was 
24 


Friendly  to  man  and  beast  three  hundred  miles. 
Through  storms  and  sunshine,  across  fertile  lands 
And  treeless  plains  beside  the  Namaha, 
On  past  the  Little  Blue  and  the  Lost  Run, 
Still  the  great  river  was  a  constant  friend, 
And  when  at  last  it  must  be  left  behind, 
Forded  and  conquered  by  our  caravan, 
Its  quicksands  had  a  charm  for  memory. 

"  Sometimes  by  fruitful  valleys  and  clear  streams, 

Sometimes  by  fields  of  alkali  we  went, 

And  deserts  crossed.     The  first  hills  that  we  saw, 

High  and  precipitous,  of  oolite  rock 

Based  upon  clay  and  hardening  upward  seemed 

Domes  of  a  great  cathedral  filled  with  hope, 

Where  cheerful  waters  would  refresh  us  and 

Thirst  might  be  quenched  in  fearlessness,  where 

prayer 

Would  quick  become  the  natural  speech  of  man 
In  gratitude  and  praise  for  perils  past. 

"  They  who  are  prairie  born,  and  first  behold 
Majestic  mountains  have  a  keener  sense 
For  their  inspiring  than  those  mountain-bred, 
To  whom  the  lights  and  shadows  on  the  heights 
Are  as  familiar  as  the  fall  of  day. 
25 


When  first  I  saw  these  distant  rising  hills 

o 

The  tears  thrilled  through  my  very  nerves  and 

choked 

My  voice  while  calling  all  the  men  to  come 
And  hasten  towards  those  heights  Delectable 
Whose  fair  deception  but  postponed  delight. 
For  still  receding  as  the  men  advanced 
Twice  twenty  miles  the  mountains  lured  them  on 
Before  the  first  spurs  that  had  seemed  so  near 
Were  reached.     And  there  the  passing  host  had 

left 
A  thousand  signals  of  their  march  and  quest. 

"  Here  men,  moved  by  the  passion  of  the  hills, 

Thrilled  mightily  with  eagerness  and  pride 

In  the  new  call  for  all  their  manhood's  strength, 

And  therefore  humanly  in  thirst  of  life 

Desiring  speech  with  their  Beloveds  far, 

Had  carved  on  bleaching  bones  of  buffalo, 

Or  skulls  of  antelope,  long  messages, 

Should  any  choose  to  take  them  to  their  home. 

Letters  were  left  in  crevices  of  rock 

Fine  words  of  hope  and  courage  scattered  round ! 

"To  all  who  came  those  signals  brought  good 
cheer, 

26 


Though  none  would  go  to  take  the  letters  home 
'  Back  to  the  States '  for  those  whom  Love  had 

left 

These  letters,  the  fond  offering  of  hearts 
Brave  for  new  dangers,  and  rejoiced  to  be 
Here  at  the  foot  of  wild  tremendous  heights 
Yet  longing  for  a  lingering  touch  of  those 
At    hearthstones    far.     No    lyre    of    love-swept 

strings 

Might  worthy  sing  the  flowering  of  faith 
And  tenderness  in  these,  Love's  letters,  doomed 
To  fade  and  mingle  with  the  mountain's  breath, 
To  spend  their  sighs  in  autumn's  chilling  blast, 
While    far   away    were    wives    and    maids    who 

yearned 
In  memory  of  kisses  —  and  in  hope  ! 

"  On  went  the  Pioneers  !     And  castled  rocks 
And  minarets  of  temples  hewn  in  stone, 
Bastions  of  fortresses  immutable, 
And  ruins  of  great  cities,  seemed  to  be 
The  solemn  nearing  mountains.     Barren  plains 
Gave  place  to  barren  hills.     Sudden  before 
Snow-crowned  stood  Laramie  !     Emotion  fine 
Moved   in  a   thousand  hearts,   yet   where 's   the 
man 

27 


\\  ho  croiied  »<  Fony  Nine  who  will  not  s.iy 

'lh.it    l.aiamie  is  not  rcmcmhcicd  best 

KOI   home  cooked    food   th.it    horn   the    Fort   was 

brought  ? 

l''oi  s.ikiii!',  pilot   hicad  lot   pic  was  joy 
Like  that  of  shipwrecked  m.miuis  when  led 
1'iom  famine  unto  plenty!    't  was  indeed 
Not  unlike  shipwreck  when  a  wagon  tailed, 
Was  broken,  or  its  oxen  lamed,  and  this 
More  bitter  felt  because  the  praiiic  ciaft 
Could  not  give  rescue  as  they  hailed  and  passed. 
Hut  trouble  waited  not  on  that  first  \cai. 
The  hardships  of  the  men  of  Forty-Nine 
Were  multiplied  in  Fifty.     Then,  indeed, 
Woe  and  disaster,  death  and  sin  and  strife, 
Attended  on  the  desperate  strug;glin«>;  hordes. 

u  After  our  distant  glimpse  of  l.aramie 
Mow  many  weary  days  before  we  reached 
Sweetwater  River!      Sweet  indeed  the  stream, 
Keiiesh'uij^  to  us  all,  both  man  and  beast, 
Atici   the  sod.i  or  the  sand-tilled  Hoods, 
For  the  last  thousand  miles.      Mv  memory 
(>i  the  old  Rockies  always  is  mixed  in 
\Yith  water,  water  !      Ah,  no  one  can  IUKSS 
The  joy  of  tired  limbs  and  ot  aching  throats 
28 


That  feel  delirious  cold  of  mountain  springs. 

Once  on  the  borders  of  a  wide  morass 

High  in  a  rocky  gorge,  in  the  wild  pass, 

We  dug  for  water,  and  we  found  at  first 

A  half-foot  layer  of  transparent  ice 

Deep  'neath  the  swampy  pass  for  months  preserved, 

And  now  revealed  for  our  contentment  while 

Fiercely  the  sun  beat  on  those  treeless  heights. 

Never  were  ices  half  so  eagerly 

ed  on  from  hand  to  hand  as  buckets  were 
Filled  with  this  mountain's  gift  to  Pioneers. 

"  Crossing  the  Rockies,  daily  wonders  grew 
Strangely  familiar  ;  huge  enormous  cones 
Standing  in  isolated  majesty 
Passed  stately  by,  as  in  a  storied  march ; 
Red  earth  of  buttes  took  tones  most  fanciful. 
High  were  the  stars  by  night,  and  sweet  the  air 
Of  the  great  table-land  where  antelope 
And  buffalo  were  plentiful  as  birds. 
The  Rocky  Mountain  Indians  were  at  war, 
JJut  we  went  on  in  peace,  nor  saw  them  once, 
Past  traders'  huts  where  half-breed  children  played 
About  the  lodges.      By  and  by  the  camp 
Where  Simonton  with  troops  for  Oregon 
e<l  beside  Green  River  Ferry.      Ah, 
tf 


No  words  can  tell  how  good  it  was  to  see 
Our  country's  soldiers  by  that  snow-fed  stream ! 
All  night  across  a  mountain  desert  drear 
Our  weary  teams  and  men  had  hardly  toiled, 
Not  daring  start  beneath  the  July  sun 
Across  the  arid  waste  whose  ashen  soil 
Cast  up  its  suffocating  clouds  like  waves 
Of  a  mysterious,  bitter  Lake  of  Death. 
All  the  dark  night  and  all  the  awful  day 
For  three-score  miles,  with  anguish  like  despair 
We  struggled  painfully,  —  the  desert  crossed, 
And  lay  down  for  the  night  in  a  ravine 
Too  much  worn  out  to  give  our  cattle  care 
Or  find  the  food  within  our  wagons  stored. 
And  then  next  morning  in  the  early  light 
Remembering  our  patient,  faithful  beasts, 
And  driving  them  to  find  some  water  near, 
Mounting  a  little  hill  we  saw  that  camp,  — 
There  floated  dear  Old  Glory  in  the  breeze  ! 

"  It  was  indeed  a  glorious  Fourth  for  us, 
That  Independence  Day  of  Forty-Nine  ! 
Green  River  Ferry  was  a  stamping-ground 
Inspiring  eloquence  in  dullest  men  ; 
The  river  there   flowed  down  through   willows 
green, 

30 


And  cotton-woods  were  growing  on  the  banks. 

Its  icy  waters,  rushing  cold  and  pure 

From  the  Wind  River,  swept  down  towards  the 

Gulf 

That  Cortes  found,  where  Colorado's  stream 
Mingles  its  flood  with  those  far  distant  seas. 

"  Far  to  the  north,  white-browed,  magnificent, 
Height  upon  height  stupendous  mountains  ranged. 
There,  in  this  mighty  forum  of  the  West, 
When  sunset's  banners  floated  red  across 
The  blue  of  heaven  and  the  eternal  snows, 
From     every    Plainsman's    tent    and    from    the 

camp 

Where  bivouacked  the  troops  for  Oregon, 
Came  forth  the  men  refreshed,  and   cheered  the 

Day. 

"And  when  one  virile  voice,  sonorous,  clear, 
Struck  up  the  Nation's  hymn,  a  thousand  more 
Joined  in  the  grand  refrain,  and  splendidly 
Rolled  forth  upon  the  fine  exalted  air 
The  patriot  chorus  of  the  Pioneers, 
Saluting  there  our  Country  and  her  sons. 
4  Land  of  the  noble  free  !  '     The  echoes  wild 
Bore  on  the  melody  to  templed  hills, 


To  every  rock  and  rill  and  mountain-side 

The  cry  exultant  rose,  —  4  Let  Freedom  ring  ! » 

"  And  late  that  eve  after  the  tale  was  told 
How  Marcus  Whitman,  long  before  Fremont, 
With  his  young  wife  had  crossed  these  wilds  to 

plant 

In  Oregon  the  standard  of  the  faith, 
And  how  on  coming  to  the  famous  spring 
In  the  South  Pass  whose  waters  flow  both  ways, 
They  all  knelt  down,  while  waved  the  stars  and 

stripes, 

And  with  their  Bibles  in  their  hands,  gave  thanks 
For  the    fair    unknown    land    they    claimed    for 

God,— 

Again  a  chorus  rose  !     And  now  the  stars 
Shone  on  our  men  while  we  remembered  him, 
Hero  and  martyr,  faithful  priest  of  God 
And  of  his  country,  who  here  too  had  passed. 
Then   soldiers  joined   with  Plainsmen,  thinking 

all 

Of  voices  heard  on  Sunday  morns  at  home  ; 
And   mingling  thoughts  of  love  with  worship's 

words, 

We  hymned  our  Maker's  praises.     And  the  night 
Received  our  voices,  thrilled  with  fervor  deep, 
32 


While  men  of  many  creeds  with  one  accord 
Singing  aspired  to  crown  Him  Lord  of  all ! 

"  Beyond  Green  River  but  a  little  way 

We  reached  a  grove  of  lovely  conifers, 

A  wooded  island  on  the  bleak  plateau, 

A  green  oasis  in  a  treeless  land. 

For  three-score  days  no  groves  had  we  beheld, 

And  this  deep  forest  bore  such  balms  for  us 

As  none   may  know   who   ne'er   have  hungered 

long 

For  sight  of  good  green  boughs  instead  of  shrubs 
And  stunted  bushes  of  the  treeless  plains* 

*c  In  the  Bear  River  valley  first  we  saw 
Four  seasons  round  us  all  in  one  view  joined  ; 
Above  was  everlasting  winter,  stern 
Upon  the  peaks  unconquered,  and  below 
The  summer  plain,  while  round  about  us  spread 
The  flowers  of  spring  and  fruits  of  autumn  grew. 
On  past  the  Bear  Spring  geysers,  and  the  cones 
Of  spent  volcanoes,  through  romantic  dales 
To  the  Snake  River  country  where  no  guard 
Was  needed  for  our  camp,  the  natives  there 
Were  all  such  Christian  heathen.    But  the  snakes ! 
Enormous  reptiles  dared  our  bravest  men. 
3  33 


The  terror  of  Eve's  daughters  was  our  own 
Although  we  left  full  many  a  rattler  dead. 
The  Humboldt  deserts  brought  our  hardest  days, 
The  dread,  mysterious  Basin  was  a  foe 
Unconquerable  to  many  a  traveller. 
After  the  mountain  springs  a  fortnight's  toil 
Where  no  grass  grew,  where  the  oases  were 
More  rare  than  angels'  visits,  and  the  sun, 
The  August  sun,  shone  glaring  on  our  camp, 
Where  night  by  night  we  struggled  sadly  on. 
In  the  long  caravan  there  sickened  then 
All  of  the  feeble,  and  death  daily  came 
Through  one  long  week,  and  claimed  a  sufferer. 
None   of  my  friends,  't  is   true,   were  called  to 

mourn, 

But  all  are  friends  in  such  sore  straits.     Aye,  oft 
When  tired  and  worn  and  ready  to  despair 
I  have  seen  men  give  one  another  care, 
Forgetful  of  their  own  keen  sufferings, 
Holding  the  can  of  precious  water  close 
To  parching  lips,  smiling  till  staring  eyes 
Drooped  into  rest,  and  breath  came  softly  back. 

"The  Indians  here  were  troublesome,  and  guard 
Was  constant  and  at  times  there  came 
From  trains  ahead  the  news  of  plundering. 
34 


On    through   gaunt    sage-brush,   torment   of  the 

plains, 

Our  trail  was  past  the  salt  springs,  and  the  hot, 
And  death  in  life  seemed  every  burning  day. 

:"  There  came  at  last  a  brilliant  August  eve, 
After  the  last  oasis  had  been  passed, 
When  the  great  mountains  that  had  grown  more 

near 

In  dim  high  splendors,  flung  their  crests  of  snow 
Against  the  glories  of  a  violet  sky. 

The  great  Sierras  in  the  sunset  stood, 
And  soon  each  rugged  peak  that  towered  white 
Above  its  rolling  snowy  fields  grew  red. 
Shining  Sierras,  beaconing  to  us,  burned 
Like  great  red  lamps  above  the  Land  of  Gold. 

"  Peace  like  a  river  flowed  when  the  first  streams 
Of  sweet  hill-water  we  at  last  had  gained, 
And  hastening  onward  through  the  wild  ravines 
Or  the  black  canons  of  the  foothills,  found 
Rest  in  the  deep  pine  forest  of  a  vale 
High  on  the  mountain-side,  where  colonnades 
Of  mighty  trees  roofed  o'er  our  little  band. 
Soft  fathomless  shadows  wrapped  us  in  content. 
35 


We  lay  and  rested  while  the  rivulets 
Sung  melodies  for  us  more  sweet  than  song. 
Cool,  solemn,  pillared,  rose  the  noble  pines, 
And  as  we  lay  full  length  upon  the  ground 
Up  from  their  boles  to  their  great  waving  tops 
The    light  of  heaven    seemed    toying   with   the 

shade, 

Until  the  high  boughs  melted  with  the  wind 
That  murmured  there,  and  light  and  sound  seemed 

one. 

Then,  tired  men  all,  we  slept  until  the  call 
Came  from  the  camp  for  workers  !     Supper  now 
Was  no  more  bacon,  but  the  mountain  trout. 

tc  For  twenty  days  Sierra  passes  through 
Our  happy  men  rode  onward.     Troubles  were 
Light  as  our  spirits,  and  the  day  we  found 
The  first  pale  slate  whose  outcrop  pledges  gold 
Was  such  a  day  as  makes  all  hardship  dear  ! 
And    scarce    the    wiser    heads    could    keep    the 

young 

From  leaving  all  and  setting  forth  alone 
To  Feather  River  and  Grass  Valley  where 
The  diggings  were  the  richest.     But  the  need 
Of  guard  against  the  Indians  kept  the  men 
Still  in  large  bands  ;  the  need  indeed  was  great. 

36 


"  And  now  prospecting  kept  us  all  alert 
For  golden  findings,  but  our  pans  were  used 
More  to  boil  coffee  than  to  wash  out  gold 
Until  we  all  had  reached  the  trading  camp, 
Over  the  mountains.     Welcome  was  the  sight 
Of  habitations  that  at  least  were  homes 
In  that  they  moved  not  on  from  day  to  day. 
How  our  hearts  bounded  when  upon  the  heights 
We  first  beheld  the  camp  !     Like  men  at  sea 
Tossed  by  the  waters  to  a  longed-for  shore 
We  reached  the  adobe  houses  and  the  tents, 
And  heard  of  the  new  city  that  had  sprung 
Into  full  life  while  we  were  on  the  way  ! 
To  Sacramento  many  went  at  first 
To  get  provisions  and  prepare  anew, 
While  we  impatient  ones  made  haste  to  come 
To  El  Dorado  and  her  famous  mines. 

"  Here  men  made  fortunes,  here  were  fortunes  lost 
In  placers  and  in  quartz.      Here  gaming  grew 
To  be  a  fiercer  fever  than  the  fire 
Which  burned  in  men  for  riches,  but  withal 
There  was  a  wild  nobility  of  soul 
Ruled  lawless  men  in  those  old  golden  days. 
From  camp  to  loyal  camp  there  stretched  a  bond 
That  knitted  men  together  in  the  strife 
37 


And  made  each  outlaw  and  each  gentleman 
One  in  the  pride  to  hurt  no  helpless  one, 
That  scorned  all  falsity  and  branded  black 
All  lack  of  brother's  faith  as  worse  than  sin. 
A  man  was  sure  to  find  good  friends  if  he 
Was  friendly  unto  men,  and  this  when  he 
Panned  out  a  thousand  dollars  or  but  one." 

*'  And,  father,  did  you  find  great  heaps  of  gold?" 
A  childish  voice  would  ask.    The  Pastor  smiled, — 
"  I  found  a  little  now  and  then,  not  much, 
But  just  enough  to  take  me  back  next  year 
In  swift  ships  by  the  Isthmus  to  the  States, 
And,  by  and  by,  bring  here  with  me  again 
One  who  is  worth  her  weight  in  gold,  you  know." 
And  here  his  brown  eyes  at  the  blue  eyes  smiled 
That  ever  smiled  again  at  him,  and  us, — 
One  who  loved  well  Coloma.     And  the  vale 
Where  the  white  roses  bloom  forgets  her  not. 
Ah,  dear  Coloma !     There  these  tales  were  told 
A  thousand  times  more  picturesque  and  strong 
Than  here  set  down,  with  countless  details  more, 
But  always  ending,  while  the  Pastor  smiled, 
As  the  old  stories  end,  —  "  And  so  they  all 
Lived  happy  ever  after  and  in  peace." 


Ill 


THE   LOST   GOLD   LAKE 

ERE  was  another  tale  more  strange 
than  all 

Told  one  June  eve  beneath  the  spread 
ing  fig. 

The  river's  ripples  murmured  from  the  sands, 
And  turtle-doves  cooed  in  the  tender  dusk 
Where  lilies  breathed  and  ruddy  poppies  drowsed. 
The  mocking  birds  called  from  the  wood.     The 

air 

Was  soft  with  breath  of  roses.     All  the  vale 
Slumbered  in  fragrance,  but  the  chaparral 
And  manzanita  on  the  mountain-side 
Stirred,  as  by  wandering  spirits  gently  touched. 
Above  the  cedars  hung  a  tawny  moon, 
And  the  sweet  starry  sky  seemed  strangely  near. 

The  old  Gold  Finder  had  been  sitting  long 
In  silence.     He  had  seen  himself  revealed, 
His  simple,  stern,  heroic  figure  strong 
39 


In  the  clear  foreground  of  the  Early  Days, 
When  he  was  herald  to  the  Pioneers. 

At  last  he  spoke  as  by  some  sacred  law 
Forced  to  complete  the  story  and  declare 
Why  in  these  latter  days  men  saw  him  oft, 
A  white-haired  mystic,  wandering  on  the  hills 
Of  El  Dorado,  seeking  aye  to  find 
What  ne'er  again  he  was  ordained  to  find. 
Perchance  his  secret  still  is  for  the  world, 
For  still  the  snow  Sierras  guard  its  key, 
And  still  the  Golden  Lake  remains  unfound. 

Through  all  his  months  and  years  he  sought  to  find 
Once  more  the  way  unto  the  Lost  Gold  Lake. 
There  came  a  day  he  died  when  far  from  home, 
And  men  incredulous  of  him,  their  Seer, 
Brought  back  his  brave  and  undefeated  clay, 
And  buried  him  where  first  he  found  the  gold 
In  bright  Coloma,  on  his  vine-clad  hill. 

There  California  hath  honored  him. 
His  monument  is  beacon  to  the  vale 
Above  the  brook  whose  murmuring  waters  fall 
Into  the  mountain  river's  singing  deeps  — 
Cold  with  the  snows  —  that  chant  his  requiem. 
40 


It  was  in  the  high  Sierras,  thus  the  tale, 
That  the  Discoverer  found  the  Golden  Lake. 
He  had  been  gone  from  home  for  many  a  day. 
Huge  live-oaks  sheltered  him,  and  wild  fruits  gave 
Of  their  abundance.      Evermore  he  sought 
For  signs  of  precious  metal.     Evermore 
Pure  goldless  crystals  urged  him  on  and  on, 
Still  seeking  for  the  slate  whose  pallid  hue 
Is  roseate  unto  a  hope  deferred, 
In  strange  deep  canons  never  found  before, 
Where  clustering  redwoods  shut  the  sunlight  out, 
And  mosses  tapestried  black  cavern  doors 
Along  the  mountain-side  with  brilliant  grey 
Shot  through  with  woof  of  rose  and  amethyst. 

It  was  the  evening  of  a  weary  day, 

He  stood  surrounded  by  bright  mica  knolls, 

That  mocked  him  with  their  glitter.     All  about 

They  shimmered  with  false  splendors.    Sunset  fell. 

Full  forty  yellow  summits  faded  dun 

Above  a  plain,  vast,  bleak,  and  desolate. 

Sudden  he  saw,  deep  in  a  dark  ravine 
That  pierced  a  path  between  two  sombre  heights, 
A  shining  doorway,  softly  radiant. 
Swiftly  he  neared  the  portal,  pausing  there, 
41 


For  murmurs  came  of  faint  enchantments,  —  faint 

As  songs  in  dreamland  heard,  an  anthem  borne 

Upon  the  winds  from  echoes  lulled  to  sleep 

Within  earth's  bosom.     When  the  music  ceased 

He  entered  in,  while  paled  the  radiance 

Upon  the  columns  of  this  temple  chaste 

And  worshipful,  hewed  from  the  mountain's  heart. 

Long  plumes  of  fretted  stone  hung  motionless 
From  the  great  vault,  or  waving  seemed  to  cling 
To  lofty  pillars  set  in  solemn  rows 
Of  lustrous  alabaster,  milky  white, 
And  marshalling  between  them  in  the  dusk 
Upspringing  stalagmites  so  crystal  fine 
That  every  facet  shone  like  Pleiad  pure, 
And  exquisite  with  myriad  tints  of  pearl. 

Far  in  the  holy  cavern  was  a  shrine 
Where  the  clear  waters  of  a  little  spring 
Dripped  from  the  shadows  down  into  a  font 
Below  a  cross  worn  in  the  living  stone 
By  the  baptismal  waters.     There  he  knelt 
Praying  for  freedom  from  his  torturing  dream 
Of  golden  wonders  still  for  him  to  find. 
Even  as  he  prayed  he  slumbered,  sinking  down 
Beside  the  altar  and  the  crystal  font. 
42 


And  as  he  wakened  with  the  new-born  light, 
Lo  !   mystic  whispers  came  :    On  the  third  day  ! 
On  the  third  day  !      On  the  third  day  !  he  heard, 
Repeated  thrice.     He  rushed  forth  from  the  cave, 
And  turned  not  back  to  his  fair  refuge  more, 
Nor  glanced  again  at  its  serene  retreat. 
Onward  he  fared  !   Morning  had  come  and  hope. 

All  day  he  wandered  through  grim  canons,  and 
Through   all  the   starless   night  paused  not,  nor 

slept. 

He  heard  the  moaning  of  the  forest  beasts 
In  troubled  slumbers,  and  the  faint  far  cry 
Of  midnight  masters  of  the  upper  world 
Where  music  melts  from  every  icy  rill. 
And  all  the  second  day,  and  all  the  night 
He  followed  the  strange  whispers  whose  portent 
Promised   him    more  than    mortal   breath   might 

speak. 

On  the  third  morrow,  ere  the  silver  dawn 
Had  touched  the  sleeping  valleys,  ere  the  East 
Had  shown  the  stars  a  first  soft  plighting  ray, 
At  that  deep  hour  when  all  the  wild  things  wake, 
When  windless  nights  stir  suddenly  with  life, 
And  men  who  stand  bare-browed  unto  the  sky 
43 


Learn  infinite  secrets  of  the  universe, — 
He  paused  before  a  monument  of  snow, 
The  first  white  dome  above  the  growing  world. 
The  last  king  pines  knelt  captive  at  his  feet, 
Obeisance  murmuring,  and  the  morning  star, 
Mellowing  the  darkness,  gleamed  upon  the  way 
That  led  up  steep  pure  heights.    And,  as  he  stood, 
Across  the  snow  shone  forth  a  crimson  glow. 
Now  here,  now  yon,  it  flashed  in  flowers  of  flame 
Like  those  of  little  cones  upon  the  hearth 
In  valley  homes  when  winter  fires  are  low. 

Onward  he   pressed.       The  morning   star  grew 

pale, 

While  gliding  o'er  the  peaks  dawn  silvery  came. 
A  second  snowy  dome  loomed  vast  before, 
And  on  its  right  another.     These  twin  guards, 
Dividing  like  a  gate  the  broad  white  way, 
Narrowed  his  path  ;  and  as  he  stood  between 
Before  him  lay  the  Garden  of  the  Snows  ! 

Small  crimson  flowers  flamed  at  his  feet.     They 

grew 

Waving  their  tiny  petals  in  the  air 
Far,  far  above  the  last  forgotten  pines. 
His  mind  refused  its  credence  to  his  eyes, 
44 


And  doubt  bedewed  his  lashes  with  a  mist. 
A  sweet  keen  languor  pierced  his  very  veins, 
And  slow  he  sank  upon  the  earth's  white  breast. 

Then  while    he  lay    and   watched    the   crimson 

flowers 

Majestic  glories  flashed  across  the  North, 
Dimming  the  East  and  filling  heaven  with  fire. 
The  spacious  vault  was  luminous,  the  morn 
Suffused  with  heavenly  ardors.    Streamers  swelled 
And  arched  as  by  celestial  breezes  swayed. 
Lustrous  were  all  the  near  and  utmost  peaks 
Of  ranged  Sierras,  yearning  upward,  faint 
With  passion  of  reflection.     Banners  gold, 
Crimson  and  violet,  undulated  slow, 
Blended  with  floating  azure  chains  and  green 
In  exquisite  confusion,  or  thrilled  white, 
Or  deepened  to  that  tint  of  marvel  pale 
Named  amber  of  Chaldean  seers,  who 
Beheld  their  mountains  and  its  color  one  ! 

Even  as  he  gazed  the  Night's  Aurora  fled 
To  the  embrace  of  her  pure  sister  Morn, 
And,  soul  in  soul,  they  met  the  conquering  Sun. 
He  gazed  and  saw  the  crimson  flowers  fade  pink. 
Paler  they  grew  as  seashells  in  the  dusk 
45 


While  whispering  ocean  kisses  a  lone  beach. 
Then  up  he  rose,  as  warm  of  spirit  and  sense 
As  if  beside  his  hearthstone  when  the  log 
Had  kept  its  living  coals  all  day  and  night. 
Erect  he  stood.      Beyond  the  hither  gates 
Of  the  fair  vanished  Garden  of  the  Snows, 
He  saw  again  two  domes  immense  and  pure, 
So  icy  pure  the  sun's  expanding  rays 
Bathed  the  great  crystals  in  irradiate  floods 
Of  light  less  luminous  than  theirs.      Once  more 
He  heard  the  whispers  whose  portents  obeyed 
Bring  wonders  manifold  to  mortal  ken. 
They  bade  him  Follow  !     As  his  footsteps  crossed 
The  Garden  of  the  Snows,  where'er  he  trod 
Fresh  blossoms  started  into  fragrant  life. 
Before  the  twin  White  Gates  he  paused. 
Nor  fear,  nor  chilling  horror  grasped  his  soul, 
But  fierce  he  felt  the  joy  of  the  Unknown 
And  palpitated  with  the  bliss  of  Death : 
Enchanted  by  its  mystery,  he  passed 
The  portals  swift,  —  and  came  unto  his  dream  ! 
An  azure  summer  Lake  embosomed  there 
Mirrored  the  high  blue  sky.     Lapping  its  shore 
Were  little  waves  that  broke  against  the  strand 
In  harmonies  like  an  ./Eolian  harp 
46 


When   breath   of  happy   prayers    has   swept    the 

strings 

Of  a  nun's  casement  as  she  gives  her  youth,  — 
Ah,   mystic    bride !  —  and    leans  to    Heaven   by 

night. 

Across  the  Golden  Lake  sweet  zephyrs  strayed 
Bringing  rare  balsams,  Alpine  fragrances, 
Subtler  than  those  that  flow  from  Shasta's  mount, 
Odors  undreamed  on  Tahoe's  lovely  shores, — 
Soft  moonbeam  scents  like  breath  of  fairy  isles. 
He  heard  wild  music  of  an  unseen  bird 
That  poured  its  soul  in  jubilance  of  song 
And   trilled    and   called    and    carolled    loud    and 

clear 

As  his  heart's  music  beating  joyously. 
Along  the  shining  sands  he  slowly  walked, 
And  knew  before  he  held  them  in  his  hands, 
Here  was  his  treasure,  found  at  last  unsought. 
He  lay  beside  the  waters,  breast  to  earth. 
He  stripped,  and   in  their  warmth  his  limbs  he 

laved, 

And  pressed  his  body  to  their  sands  of  gold, 
While  o'er  him  swept  the  little  billowing  waves 
In  the  first  shallows  of  that  hidden  sea. 
47 


Upon  the  Lake  he  floated  silently, 

Or  turned  and  with  swift  strokes  the  bright  depths 

cleaved, 

And  saw  the  endless  shimmer  of  fine  gold 
Below  the  paths  of  rainbow  fish  that  played 
Among  the  mosses  fringing  the  far  shore. 
Against  the  bank  a  strangely  tufted  hedge 
Concealed  what  lay  beyond  :  content  he  sped 
Lusty  with  manhood  to  the  hither  shore. 
He  made  a  bower  of  interlacing  boughs 
From  a  dark  tree  like  cedars  of  the  vale, 
And  in  the  purple  shade  lay  down  to  rest. 
But  Joy  had  taken  his  hand  and  would  not  bide. 
She  pressed  him  with  wild  clamors  at  his  breast, 
She  smiled  and  clasped  him,  and  fled  down  the 

shore. 

She  blessed  his  soul,  and  warmed  his  body  through 
With  rapturous  intent  as  fast  he  ran 
Beneath  the  brilliant  skies,  and  fast  returned, 
While  close  beside  him,  sweet  and  eagerly 
He  felt  her  fleeting,  —  and  the  bliss  of  breath  ! 
Loud     sang    the    unseen    bird,    and    drew  more 

near 

Flitting  across  the  voiceless  space  of  air, 
And  hiding  in  the  shadow  of  the  bower. 
48 


He  knelt  beside  the  bower,  and  spread  his  palms 
Unto  the  bending  heavens,  —  then  aloud 
Shouting  and  singing,  frenzied  with  delight 
Roused  a  great  chorus  into  glorious  song. 
From  each  empurpled  shade,  each  bush  and  shrub, 
From  wild-flower  trees,  in  feathery  snow  of  bloom, 
And  from  the  skies  and  the  encircling  hills 
Came  riotous  ecstasy  of  rich  response. 
Gladder  than  nightingales  that  sing  by  day 
In  Eastern  gardens,  louder  than  the  lark 
Of  prairie  meadows,  sweet  as  orioles 
That  herald  sunrise  to  their  sleeping  loves, 
In  melody  rejoiced  the  unseen  choir. 

Close  by  the  bower  wild  luscious  fruits  he  found, 
Tropic  with  sweet,  red  as  pomegranates  are 
That  grow  in  Cascade  valleys,  next  the  sea, 
But  missing  all  the  tantalizing  lure 
Of  those  strange  apples ;  these  made  hunger  kind, 
Blessed  him  in  eating,  and  refreshed  his  sense, 
And  added  to  his  very  soul's  content. 

Along  the  shore,  the  converse  way  he  strolled 
And  here  found  pebbles  strewn  upon  the  beach 
By  playful  waves,  great  nuggets  of  pure  ore ! 
4  49 


As  children  build  a  house,  so  one  by  one 

He  piled  about  him  the  bright  glittering  stones, 

And  row  on  row  and  line  on  line  upreared 

A  golden  cabin,  toiling  all  day  long. 

He  roofed  it  with  the  unknown  cedar's  boughs, 

Then  once  more  of  the  strange  pomegranates  ate, 

And  lay  him  down  to  rest,  while  evening  came. 

An  hour  half  waking,  half  in  sleep's  embrace 

He  dreamed  a  future  marvellous  and  kind. 

Empires  of  grandeur  passed  before  his  mind, 

Swift  argosies  saluted  him,  with  sails 

Set  for  a  thousand  happy  ports,  and  kings 

Envied  his  El  Dorado,  first  of  earth. 

He  built  a  thousand  homes  in  heart's  delight, 

And  every  orphaned  child  with  mothering  care 

Was  nurtured,  rocked  at  night,  and  kissed  to  sleep, 

And  given  May  Day  roses  every  morn. 

Lo !  as  he  dreamed,  ere  yet  he  had  desired 
To  use  his  lore  of  wood-craft  and  the  skies, 
To  know  which  way  to  guide  his  thronging  camp 
Even  as  he  dreamed,  a  hurricane  came  down. 
A  great  wind  reared  the  waters  of  the  Lake 
That  dashed  in  mad  black  breakers  at  his  feet, 
Whelming  his  wonder  world  in  wrathful  night. 
50 


A  nameless  terror  seized  him,  and  he  fled, 
Wrapping  his  garments  to  his  trembling  frame. 
He  passed  the  great  White  Gates,  turned  tempest 

dark, 

And  onward  through  the  Garden  of  the  Snows, 
Whose  blood-red  blossoms  withered  impotent 
And  seedless  fell  about  his  flying  steps. 
Two    nights  and    days    all    through  the  dreadful 

storm 

Homeward  he  hastened,  led  of  unseen  guides 
Down  great  volcanic  gorges  rent  and  torn 
From  out  the  mountain  fires  and  shuddering  still 
With  flames  in  wide  black  craters  cold  and  spent. 
On  either  side  of  him  strange  mountains  raised 
High  glittering  crests,  and  pale  cliffs  towering  dim 
Crumbled  and  fell  on  either  side  his  way. 

'T  was  on  the  third  dark  evening,  ere  the  storm 

Had  died  within  the  valley,  once  again 

Beside  his  hearth  he  sat,  and  tasted  bread. 

His  hair  and  beard  dead  white  about  him  hung, 

And  in  his  eyes  a  strange  light  deepening  burned, 

Quenched  not  thereafter.      In  his  palm  he  bore, 

Clasped  fast  in  his  first  agony  of  fear, 

Three  gleaming  golden  grains, —  his  harvest  proof! 


And  thus  the  story  ended.     So  Good  Night, 
The  old  Gold  Finder  said,  and  went  his  way. 
The  moon  shone  royally  above  the  hill, 
Lighting  the  path  up  to  his  lonely  home. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  PRINTED  BY 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON  DURING 
OCTOBER  1896 


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